


He's a Keeper; The Prequel

by dracogotgame



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Apologies, Competition, M/M, Quidditch, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2019-03-31 09:15:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13971933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracogotgame/pseuds/dracogotgame
Summary: Harry's tryout for the Appleby Arrows is not quite what he expected, and Draco discovers a brand new skill set.





	He's a Keeper; The Prequel

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [He's a Keeper](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4506105) by [dracogotgame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracogotgame/pseuds/dracogotgame). 



> Written for hd_fluff's prompt: _Quidditch_.  
>  A prequel to my hd_cliche fic: [**_He's a Keeper_**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4506105). I pretty much prompted myself with this. I just really wanted to write this, please enjoy ^_^
> 
> * * *
> 
> [Originally published August 24, 2015](https://dracogotgame.livejournal.com/100283.html)

Harry laughed in delight, swooping and spinning through the air. The wind stung his face and whipped his hair around. His Firebolt was splintered and a little shaky on the uptake, a testament to the days and weeks and months of the gruelling practice he’d put it through for this moment. Harry silently vowed that if he made the cut, he would finally retire his trusty old friend. After all, the Appleby Arrows were almost exclusively sponsored by the Nimbus Racing Broom Company. As Seeker, he would be expected to fly one of their professional models, a 2020 Special Edition at the very least.

At the risk of showing off, Harry made another smooth flip before finally coming in for a landing. 

The talent scout from the Arrows was jogging over. Harry tumbled off the broom and hastily scrubbed a hand through his messy hair, trying in vain to look at least a little presentable. He tried not to let his eagerness show but he suspected it was in vain. He wanted to play professional Quidditch like he’d never wanted anything before. This was all he’d ever dreamed of and it was written clear as day on his face. Besides, playing it cool had never been his style.

“Not bad,” the scout noted as he approached. Ridley Tanner was a young man, possibly in his early thirties, but he’d played Seeker for the Arrows for ten whole years before retiring on account of a bad ankle. That was a whole other kind of seniority. Harry felt slightly intimidated. He probably looked like an eager little kid to this bloke. “You’ve got a real unique style there, Potter,” Tanner continued. “Was that a Plumpton Pass I saw?”

“I’ve been practicing all month,” Harry replied immediately. He winced at his excited tone. He sounded like a rookie in the stands. Fortunately, Tanner seemed to approve.

“Commitment,” he noted with a nod. “We value that at the Arrows. Of course, you understand that if you go the distance, this will be what we call a ‘lazy Sunday morning’. It’s going to be nothing but practice, practice, practice in the rain, sun, hail, what have you! Think you can handle that?”

Harry’s heart thrummed in excitement. Tanner was already talking about real practice sessions on the team! That must mean he had a decent shot of making it, right?

“Absolutely!” he exclaimed. “I’m in for the long haul, sir. You can count on it! I’ve wanted this since I was eleven and...”

Tanner nodded distractedly, and waved him off. “Yes, yes. Everyone does,” he said with a touch of impatience. “But  _wanting_  it isn’t enough. If you really want to play Quidditch, you’re going to have to bring your A-Game to the final round. I have a good feeling about you, Potter, but you have to show me that you’re the best, that you’re  _better_  than the best. Being the famous Harry Potter won’t win you any points with me, you got that? We’re looking for sportsmen, not celebrities.”

Harry blinked in surprise at the stern note in Tanner’s voice. For a moment, his hackles rose and he almost shot back a retort on how using his fame to get on his dream Quidditch team was the last thing he wanted. But finally, he offered an obedient nod and said nothing. If Tanner wanted him to prove himself, then Harry was fine with that.

That was all he’d ever wanted anyway— a fair shot, like everyone else.

“I won’t let you down, sir,” he said finally.

Tanner grinned and clapped his shoulder. “Excellent. Now, take a break and be back on the pitch in five. It’s between you and one other bloke. Winner takes all, and mind you, he’s good.”

With that, Tanner left, offering another friendly clap on the shoulder and a  _good luck, Potter._ Harry took a deep breath and sat down on the pitch to wait, trying to keep his stomach from knotting up.

This was it. This was The Big Leagues.

****

Tanner returned on the dot. Harry sprang up at once and picked up his broom. From the corner of his eye, he spotted someone else jogging in from the far right but he was too nerve wrecked to bother with his future contender. If Tanner had some last minute instructions, he was getting Harry’s complete attention.

“So, let’s keep this short, yeah?” Tanner said, striding up with a buzzing Snitch loosely clasped in his fingers. “Standard rules, keep it simple. Catch the Snitch, you’re on the team. No second chances, no rematches, nothing. It’s all or nothing. Got it?”

Harry gulped. His eyes strayed to the Snitch in Tanner’s hand. His dream was centred round that small gold ball. The Snitch had never looked quite so small and fast before.

“Ready, boys?” 

Tanner’s voice rang out with purpose and Harry jumped to attention.

“Ready,” he blurted.

“Same,” another voice drawled.

Harry blinked. He hadn’t even noticed that the other bloke was right next to him. He turned around on instinct...

...only to be faced with the last person he ever wanted to see.

“Hello, Potter,” Malfoy sneered, hoisting his broom on one shoulder. 

Harry gaped soundlessly, too shocked to react as Malfoy’s condescending gaze drifted over him. 

“Oh good,” Malfoy drawled with a sharp grin. “This will be easier than I thought.”

The jab brought Harry back to ground zero. “You,” he hissed, taking an aggressive step forward. 

“Me,” Malfoy agreed with a smirk. 

Malfoy. Malfoy was here. Malfoy was his contender for the Seeker position! That thrice damned snake had slithered into the scene to steal Harry’s dreams away! He was back, just in time to ruin Harry’s life for the millionth time!

Like hell this was happening! 

This was  _Harry’s_ big moment. This was  _it_  and Malfoy was not getting his grubby paws on Harry’s dream without a fight.

He bared his teeth in the imitation of a snarl. Malfoy merely offered a cool smile. Harry’s fists clenched and he had to actively keep from launching himself at the snotty git.

“I understand you’ve played each other at Hogwarts, yes?” Tanner noted, Summoning a clipboard and scribbling some notes down. 

“Once or twice,” Harry bit out.

_Training for the ballet, Potter?_

Merlin, he could scream. How was this even  _happening_ to him?!

Tanner nodded, still scribbling obliviously. “Normally, we try to avoid that in the tryouts. You know his style, he knows yours, it’s a bit tricky when we’re judging you objectively. But you two were practically tied for first place, so we’ll make it work.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t necessarily call what Potter does a ‘style’,” Malfoy commented lazily, “unless almost ingesting the Snitch qualifies as a tactic.”

“No more so than buying a place on the team with a stack of shiny new brooms from Daddy,” Harry shot back with a sneer.

He  _so_  did not need this right now. But Malfoy was clearly looking for a fight and Harry had seven years of bad blood with this bastard and it wasn’t going away in a hurry.

Malfoy’s smile faded at the jibe and his eyes narrowed. “Watch your back, Potter,” he hissed.

“ _You_  can watch it,” Harry retaliated, “when I leave you in the dust and catch that Snitch.”

Malfoy took a step forward and Harry followed suit. He was on the verge of pulling his wand out when Tanner’s sharp bark rang out.

“Oi!” he snapped angrily. “None of that on my pitch! We’re here to play a good, clean game and that’s it! Keep the trash talk to a minimum, is that clear?”

“Fine with me!” Harry rounded up on him. “But just so we’re clear, don’t expect a  _good, clean game_  from Malfoy. He cheats like he breathes! You won’t even see it coming!”

Tanner considered that. “Good,” he announced finally.

Harry’s jaw dropped. “What?!”

Tanner gave him a stern look. “If he can get a foul past me, he’s welcome to it,” he said firmly. Then he turned to Malfoy. “You won’t. And if I catch you, you’re done.”

Malfoy scowled and opened his mouth to argue but Tanner beat him to it.

“And I suggest both of you think long and hard before I hear  _any_  nonsense about people getting a spot on this tryout because they’re famous  _or_  infamous,” he declared sternly. “You’re being judged on talent and nothing else. If this is acceptable, I suggest you mount your brooms. Otherwise, the exit’s that way.”

Malfoy’s mouth shut with an audible snap. Harry mentally gloated at his sullen expression. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. Tanner was clearly looking at skill and if Malfoy couldn’t cheat, Harry would beat him hollow. He was confident about that.

Without another word, Harry stalked off to the centre. Malfoy held his head up and marched, taking a stand across from him. His eyes flashed as he focused on Harry. Harry’s jaw clenched and his fist tightened on his broomstick.

There was a moment of silent tension so thick Harry could almost taste it. Then Tanner blew the whistle and released the Snitch.

****

The whole world was a blur. 

Harry’s snarl of frustration was lost in the wind as Malfoy swerved past him  _again,_ blocking his straight shot at the Snitch. He jagged to the left, infuriatingly aware of the pale shadow on his tail.

So far, the match had been gruelling. Malfoy was fast and tricky, relying on smooth twists and sudden misdirection to throw Harry off track. Twice now, the bastard had feigned a move in one direction only to have Harry quickly follow and then change course. He was trying to run Harry ragged and damn him, he was succeeding.

The Snitch was no better. If Harry didn’t know better, he’d say the damned thing was rigged to be faster and lighter than the standard Snitch. He had come within inches of it before it dive-bombed and vanished to the other end of the pitch.

His knuckles were strained by his deathly grip on the broom and the wind had picked up too. Thankfully, Harry had practiced and had an easier time with sudden air currents. Malfoy was staggering against the punishing gust and by the looks of it, it was starting to take a toll on him too.

 _Just a little more,_  Harry told himself fervently.  _You beat him before, you can do it again. It’s just like Hogwarts._

But it really wasn’t. Harry was man enough to admit that Malfoy had become shockingly good over the years. He hadn’t pulled a foul once— although that was probably more out of fear of Tanner’s hawk like eye than any concept of sportsmanship— but he was holding his own. Meanwhile, Harry was starting to falter. This was the most intense match of his life and this was only the bleeding tryout!

And then, Quidditch did what it always does. It changed the whole course of the game in a split second.

A flash of gold caught Harry’s eye. The Snitch was buzzing by a goalpost, well out of reach. Harry just barely caught a glimmer of the sun on one small, white wing. But it was there. He definitely saw it.

So did Malfoy.

Malfoy veered off course and headed straight for the gold. Harry let loose a cry of outrage and sped up, right on his tail. The wind whistled as he flew right across the pitch, gaining inch by agonizing inch on Malfoy. The Firebolt trembled violently against the force. Harry prayed fervently, mentally pleading with the broom to pull through, just one more time. He leaned forward and  _willed_  himself forward.

Malfoy’s hand stretched out. They were neck and neck now. Harry shot an arm out, in pure desperation. The Snitch, caught off guard by an onslaught from two directions, fluttered fretfully before making a decision and veering slightly to the left.

Right into Harry’s waiting hand.

 **“Yes!”**  he howled, grasping the golden ball in a death grip. “Fucking hell,  **yes!”**

“No!” Malfoy snarled. 

But it was done. Harry beamed as he swooped to the ground with the Snitch firmly tucked in his hands. 

He had done it! He was the new Seeker for the Appleby Arrows!

Harry laughed and tumbled from his broom, not even caring that he grazed his shin as he landed on the hard ground. 

Tanner jogged over and helped him up with a grin. “Now that’s real Quidditch!” he praised, shaking Harry’s hand. “Well done, Potter. You’re in.”

There was a slight thump behind them. Harry turned and his grin only widened as Malfoy landed and promptly kicked his broom out of the way. He scrubbed his hands through his hair in frustration. His lip was curled in a near snarl and the expression on his face spoke of murderous intent.

Harry had never been happier.

“Hey, Malfoy,” Tanner offered with a placating smile, “It was a real good effort. Maybe next year, yeah?”

Malfoy said nothing. He just stalked over to the bench and tugged at the lacings of his boots. A Quaffle rolled in his way and he kicked at it.

 _Sore loser,_  Harry thought smugly. Well, it wasn’t his problem. He’d won this time and Malfoy could bloody well suck it.

“I’ll be back with the paperwork,” Tanner said. He cast a semi sympathetic glance in Malfoy’s direction before shaking his head and giving Harry a stern, if slightly amused look. “Try not to rub it in too much, okay?” 

Harry made no promises, but he  _was_  nice enough to wait until Tanner was well out of sight before swaggering over to Malfoy. 

“Tough break,” he offered, with a cheeky grin.

Oh, alright, so it wasn’t the nicest thing to do but Malfoy had it coming. Harry could afford to rub it in a  _little_ , couldn’t he?

“Sod off, Scarhead,” Malfoy muttered. He was staring straight ahead, evidently trying to burn a hole in the grass with his glare.

It was just too good to pass up.

“Don’t feel bad, Malfoy,” Harry teased with a grin. “You did the best you could. Of course, it wasn’t as good as my best but then, what else is new?”

“I said fuck off!” Malfoy snarled, getting up and barging into his space. “You got lucky and you know it! The Snitch practically flew into your hand and isn’t that just typical?! Fucking Potter and your fucking luck! That wasn’t a fair win by any standards, and you can remember  _that_  when you play for the Arrows!”

Harry bristled defensively. A part of him was loath to admit it, but Malfoy was right. He  _had_  gotten lucky in that last minute with the Snitch. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t put his all into it! He had won fair and square!

“Hey, don’t get snippy with me just because you’re not good enough to play real Quidditch!” he growled. Malfoy’s eyes  _burned_  at that and Harry felt a vicious stab of satisfaction. “Yeah, that’s right. Here’s the stone cold truth, Malfoy: I won. You lost. Deal with it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Malfoy sneered dismissively. “Harry Potter gets whatever he wants by sheer dumb luck. In other news, Weasley is poor.”

Harry’s blood raged as Malfoy turned his back on him and picked up his broom. He didn’t even know why he was so angry. He had won, after all, and there wasn’t a damn thing Malfoy could do about it. He was going to be a professional Quidditch player and that was huge. But...for some reason, the words  _sheer, dumb luck_ rang in his head. After all these years, was it too much for Malfoy to admit that Harry did have talent? That he was good?

And that’s when Harry came to the horrifying realisation that he wanted Malfoy’s admission. He wanted his arch rival to admit that he was a bloody good Seeker. He actually  _wanted_  Malfoy’s approval.

The thought was more than Harry could stand and he reacted the only way he knew how with Malfoy. By being an utter prat.

“Hey, don’t go crying yet, Malfoy!” he yelled out. “We might still have an opening on the Arrows for a water boy!”

Even as he said it, Harry realised it was one step too far. Malfoy stiffened. He turned around. His face was a study in rage and before Harry could even register what he’d just done, the Quaffle flew from Malfoy’s hand and got him smack bang in the face.

**THWACK!**

Harry went flying and crashed down with a yelp of pain. His glasses had flown right off his face by the force of Malfoy’s attack and he was pretty sure his nose was bruised, if not broken. Harry whimpered in pain and curled in on himself, right there on the pitch.

“Congratulations, Potter!” Malfoy yelled. “There’s your first injury as a professional Quidditch player! I hope a Bludger clocks you right in the groin!”

Harry was only vaguely aware of the bastard striding off. He only opened his eyes when he felt a firm hand shaking him. Harry looked up, only to see Tanner’s exasperated face.

“What did you do?” he demanded.

Harry winced, partly in pain and partly in guilt. “Something immature,” he admitted truthfully. In all fairness, he couldn’t blame Malfoy for this. He really  _had_  deserved it.

Tanner scoffed. “He got you good, didn’t he?” he chided. “A punch like that leaves a mark.”

“It wasn’t a punch,” Harry groused. “He threw a bleeding Quaffle at me.”

He wasn’t anticipating Tanner’s strange reaction. His expression changed abruptly, flitting from annoyance to surprise to...something else. Something speculative. “A Quaffle,” he repeated slowly. “You’re telling me Malfoy hit you point blank in the face with a Quaffle?”

Harry nodded sullenly. He didn’t really feel like a winner anymore. The spat with Malfoy had put a damper on his good mood. Vaguely, he wondered why he persisted on scrapping with the bastard if he didn’t even have the benefit of vindictive satisfaction anymore. Old habits, probably.

“How far away was he?”

Harry blinked in surprise at the question. 

“Malfoy,” Tanner clarified impatiently. “Exactly how far did he throw the Quaffle?”

Really? This was the important bit? “He was over there,” he muttered grudgingly, gesturing at the bench. “Probably needed some distance for a running start.”

Tanner’s eyes tracked the distance between the bench and Harry’s fall from grace. He whistled appreciatively. “Good aim.”

“Bully for him,” Harry groused. Merlin, his face really hurt. He hissed in pain as Tanner steadied him with a firm hand.

“You need to see a Field Healer,” he declared firmly. “I’m not authorised to cast an Episkey or I’d do it myself. We’ll sign the contract when you’re fixed up.”

Harry nodded and started to trudge off the pitch.

“Oh, and Potter...”

Harry turned around. Tanner’s expression was mildly disapproving. “Quidditch is a noble sport. There are rules both on and off the pitch that  _have_  to be followed. Rule number one: never rub your victory in someone else’s face. It’s bad sportsmanship.”

Harry felt a hot trickle of shame in his stomach. “I’ll apologise to Malfoy,” he mumbled, “assuming I ever see him again.”

He doubted it. If they ever crossed paths again, Malfoy was far more likely to skewer him than speak to him.

Tanner’s brow quirked. “Well, you never know. You might see him sooner than you think. Now go see that Healer. Your face looks like the back end of a Bowtruckle.”

****

**A few days later:**

Harry sat alone in his small flat, shuffling the papers on his desk. His contract was laid out in front of him, signed and sealed and official. He started practice with the team on Monday.

By all accounts, this was the happiest day of his life and yet, he couldn’t bring himself to really enjoy it.

Ron and Hermione had called about a thousand times, asking him to meet them at the Leaky, but Harry wasn’t in the mood to celebrate. His thoughts just kept going back to the tryouts and the way he’d acted. Merlin, he’d been such an arse. Did he even deserve his good fortune? And yes, he did admit that it was only good fortune that had got him as far as it had. Yes, he had worked and slogged for this, but so had Malfoy. The only difference was that Harry had been in the right place at the right time and Malfoy had been two steps behind him. That’s why he was one of the Arrows now and Malfoy wasn’t.

And what had Harry done? He’d gloated and rubbed his win in Malfoy’s face like a six year old with the bigger Chocolate Frog Card collection.

It wasn’t right. And he wanted to apologise to Malfoy, he really did— if only to get this guilt out of his system, but he just couldn’t bring himself to light up the fireplace and make the call...

A sudden knock on his door jerked him out of musings. Harry hurried over, swung the door open and promptly froze in his tracks.

“Malfoy?”

Malfoy looked vaguely uncomfortable as he shuffled on Harry’s porch. “Hello, Potter,” he greeted quietly. “May I come in?”

Harry just stared in silence until Malfoy cleared his throat impatiently. Then he stepped aside and ushered Malfoy in.

“Tanner gave me your address,” Malfoy explained. “He said you needed to talk to me. He was quite...insistent about it.”

Harry winced. “Yeah, about that,” he began. “I need...I mean, I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

This time, Malfoy froze. “Sorry,” he repeated, as if the word was strange to him. Being Draco Malfoy, it probably was.

“Yeah,” Harry confirmed with an uncomfortable nod. “I acted like a prat and you didn’t deserve that. You were brilliant at the tryouts and you deserved a spot on the team as much as I did. I think I was angry because you were right. I did get lucky back there. It just...hurt to hear it.”

Malfoy took all that in with a blank expression. “Well, as long as you admit it,” he offered finally.

Harry bristled indignantly before noting Malfoy’s grin. Oh. Teasing. This was Malfoy teasing him.

Weird.

“If it helps, I wanted to apologise too,” Malfoy stated hesitantly. “I...reacted badly to losing and I’ve been informed by my Mother— several times actually— that she raised me better than that. Therefore, I came here to say: Potter, I’m sorry I hit you in the face with a Quaffle.”

Harry barked out a surprised laugh. He felt better all of a sudden, like a load had been lifted off him. “It’s alright,” he said. “You’ve done worse. We both have.”

“Maybe it’s time we put that behind us.”

Malfoy’s suggestion had a questioning tone and Harry hastened to agree. 

“I think I’d like that,” he agreed at once. “And again Malfoy, you were good out there. Really good. If it means anything, I think you should keep trying. Who knows? Maybe we’ll see each other on the pitch some day.”

Malfoy’s smile turned sly all of a sudden. Harry was instinctively wary before recalling that he’d offered a truce not ten seconds ago.

“It’s funny you should mention that,” Malfoy drawled. “Tanner sent me here to  _clear the air,_  as it were, because we’re both going to be playing for the Arrows next season.”

Harry blinked in confusion. Both of them...? But he was the Seeker so...was Malfoy a Reserve? Or was it like a...

“Chaser,” Malfoy answered his unspoken question. “Tanner thought my aim was rather impressive and with a little work, I could make it as Chaser when Betty Royce retires next month. Apparently, I have  _you_  to thank for that.”

Harry burst out laughing. He couldn’t help it, it was so ridiculous. Of all the insane things that had happened to him, this definitely made it in the Top Five. When he finally subsided, Malfoy was watching him with an amused grin of his own. Harry thought he looked rather nice when he smiled. He hastily brushed that thought away.

“Congratulations,” he said instead, holding his hand out.

Malfoy’s fingers slipped into his, slim and strong. Harry swallowed at the brush of skin. “And to you,” Malfoy offered softly. “I suppose I’ll see you on the pitch, Potter.”

“I’ll be there,” Harry promised. “And we’re going to be unbeatable, you’ll see.”

Malfoy replied with an amused chuckle and turned to leave. “By the way, Potter,” he said suddenly, pausing on his way out. Silver grey eyes drifted to Harry’s face again, open and honest for once. “You’re a good Seeker. I may not have said as much before but...the Arrows are fortunate to have you.”

Harry smiled back, trying to ignore how his heart soared at the simple words.

_He thinks I’m good. He really thinks I’m good._

It was absurd, really, how happy that made him. Perhaps he needed another session with the Field Healers.

“Of course, your stupid lucky streak helps.” Malfoy drawled, as he walked away. “At least I’ll have it on my side for once. See you Monday, Potter. Bring your A-Game.”

The door clicked shut as he left and Harry allowed himself a genuine smile. 

Things had worked out just fine, after all. With that thought, he lit the fireplace up and made a Floo Call to Ron and Mione.

It was time to celebrate.


End file.
